


The Wedding of Hador and Gildis.

by hennethgalad



Series: Hador Lórindol. [10]
Category: The Silmarillion
Genre: F/M, Wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-01 11:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Not the wedding speeches.





	1. The Father of the Groom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).



 <https://www.deviantart.com/victoriaclare/art/The-Wedding-of-Hador-and-Gildis-762089335>

  
(from the journal of Hathol, of the House of Marach.  
midsummer day of the 414th year of the Sun  
Barad Eithel.)

  
  The best thing we learned from the Elves was the art of writing. Of course it is very useful for sending messages, or writing lists, but the best part is that I may record my thoughts, no, unburden my mind, without troubling my poor wife. She will not last long now. Her heart was broken to miss the wedding, but I could not dispute with the chosen bride of my son. And, though I shall never admit this to my wife, I too would have chosen to wed here, in this dreamlike castle, this palace of wonders...  
   But my poor wife ! I can hardly bear to look at her, she has shrunken to a horror of bone and sinew, her hair, her beautiful hair, so thin that the very veins on her scalp can be seen, it makes me choke with tears... She is so young, younger than I, she should be standing tall, laughing hearty and eating heartier, not shivering in her bed like one thrice her age !  
My rage is as great as my grief, but what can we do ? Even the Elves... Poor Hador brought six of their finest surgeons, but they said, they told him, before ever they saw her, that they know nothing of the causes of the wasting sickness, nor aught that may be done. They keep her supplied with a cordial, which brings a faint glow to her cheeks, and a little vigour to her spirit, but she does not eat, less than a bird...  
   It sometimes seems to me that we are being punished for our private scorn for our youngest, poor Maren, who seems to have the worst of everything. Where Hador is boisterous and charming, Maren is loud and annoying. Where Hador is a fine strapping man, healthy and vigorous, Maren is bony and wiry, and nervous as a squirrel. We feed him well, he works like three men, but no meat grows on his lanky frame, and the sleep of the exhausted gives him no respite from his groundless fear. She says he knows that we compare him unfavourably with Hador, and she may be right. But even his voice irritates me, though he merely offer me wine.  
   I knew that he would not enjoy this place, he takes after his grandfather too much. Well, yes, and after me... But I am here, and now that I have seen...

   Oh the splendid towers of Barad Eithel ! I wish I were a bard, to write fitting words, the words of poetry. It is a place of poetry, and music, and song. I shall be haunted forever by the singing, and indeed I can see why Hador does not wish to return home. By the Hunter, I cannot blame him. There is nothing here as squalid as my own great House, the very hounds live as kings compared to us, it is shaming. Perhaps Hador is right, perhaps we could learn from these creatures, though he would probably strike me to hear me describe them so.  
   

   I am dazzled and bewildered, I do not know what to say... They are all lovely, all young, tall, straight, slender, graceful, sweet voiced... I feel old, and I am not yet 46. My grandfather lived to 91. That is old... Or so we thought, all but great grandfather, who knew Elves.

   I asked one how old he was, but instead of answering he started telling me about the magic trees in the West. Magic trees. The awful thing is, they may be telling the truth, for all I know. It is certain that they have powers beyond our understanding ! My smiths have been asking about the silver there is everywhere here, on pillars ! Why, the very roof is covered with silver ! It is dazzling in the sunshine. They say it shines across the Ard-galen, that endless sea of grass, and guides the traveller. Wondrous !

   But when my smiths would learn how the silver was kept from blackening, the Elves spoke of substances in the earth that our people know nothing of, strange new metals, and powders of rock, which added to silver give it the power to withstand the actions of time. Oh we have so much to learn ! Hador was right, Malach was right, we must study the arts of these Elves, who know things that we do not yet know we lack.  
   But my Hador is not one for gloating. When I told him of my thoughts on this matter, he was only glad that I might share his eagerness. Well, I would not go so far as eagerness, but surely our lives will be enriched by the grace of the Elves.

   My poor wife... It is a mercy that she is not here, though she would love the place, the people, the beautiful robes, especially this fine, no, splendid robe they gave me. It is green, the dark green of pines, with a mountain range embroidered in silver around the hem. Such charming flattery ! They made it just for me, in honour of the wedding of my son ! I shall look so grand, even Hador will stop sighing and saying "oh father !" like he does. But he should have worn the cat-skin. It has been in our family since before we came to Beleriand, it has always been worn by our chieftain, for wedlock, for mourning, and for high council. But no. "Oh father !" Well well, the robe they made for him, it is as fine as any the High King wears. I truth, I think it cut from the same cloth, that rich blue they wear, with embroidery of silver flowers, or rays of the sun, well, i do not know. My eyes are not what they were. On the hunt, all is well, but for close work... Even for this, I must stand up straight to see the feather move as it should. I do not like to admit such weakness, Hador might feel he must take up my load, but he is young, let him have his adventures here, there will be time for duty in due course. Indeed, when Gildis starts to bear children, he will find he is busy enough !

   This place ! The vast ceilings echo the sounds, but so sharply, I am truly astonished. When they sing all together, as they do daily, the rich depth of their music seems to take me outside myself, to melt away into the air like frost in sunlight. It moves all who hear it, the roughest of my troop sit still and quiet, while those with heart or good ears are often seen to shed tears. I myself... But what are we here for, after all ? What father could be unmoved to have his son wed the daughter, the lovely daughter, of his closest friend ? I told the High King, it is better than I dreamed possible, and he nodded slowly. He is a strange one; haunted, I'd say, but if old Malach spoke truly, the poor king has seen some awful things. His own brother drew a sword on him ! By the void... Of course, there are tales of such treachery among our own people, but few that ended without death, or at least bloodshed.    

   Yes, a patient fellow, Fingolfin. Though Hador laughed when I spoke my thought, but did not correct me. He is full of joy, as he should be, with such a lovely bride ! The High King has his own sister arranging matters for the ceremonies, they treat my Hador as though he were kin to them, close kin, at that. I am flattered, but still, as a father, and as a chieftain, I wonder what it is they wish of him. Even though lady Írimë, the king's sister, told me that there was a prophecy that one day our Houses would unite in blood, still I wonder... Unite in blood ? How could such a thing be ? No one knows if a child could be born from the blending of our kinds. We are so very different, for all they have eyes, noses, hands, feet... So too does the squirrel, but you would not...

   Well, but my thoughts spiral like the stairs of the Tower of Valar, with a new thought at every turn. What a tower ! There is writing on the stairs, in their old script, from the West, the words of the Song of Making, which they tell us brought the world into being. And sometimes when they sing it, in the great hall, I can almost believe it. The writing is so pretty, if you did not know that it was writing, it would look like waves, or a lowland forest, flowing across the uprights of the marble stairs like water in a stream. Hark at this poetry !

   They get you, in the end, their songs seep into your dreams, and even when wide awake, my mind drifts away as they sing, and I float like a hawk in the summer.

   But they are no dreamers, or not merely so. We were guided through the palace, what ! the city ! We were guided by the Steward, a quiet, thoughtful Elf, who looked older than most, though his face was as smooth as any newly come to manhood. I did not trouble to ask his age. But he showed us the storerooms, the wine cellars, barrels vast enough to drown a whole village, and shelf after shelf, room after room, of carefully sealed flagons, filled with sweet wine, and sweeter mead. My steward was very interested in their craft of sealing, such is the lot of the steward, and was led away after the tour, and has not been seen since ! I trust that he will not desert me in his eagerness to learn from the Elves, since I seem to have lost my favourite son to them. No, that is unfair, he has done nothing to bring me anger, nothing save love the Elves more than his own kind, more than his own family. But it is not his fault, old Malach would go on so, and when he found an eager listener at last in my Hador, well, the two were inseparable, until Malach broke his leg, and that was the last of his wandering. Poor old man. As I get older, I feel more pity for his lot, helpless in his chair for so long, after such a life.

   But the storerooms of Barad Eithel ! They could stand a seige of years. Years. I asked their steward, but he could not say how long they might hold out. He just said that he did not think that the Enemy would wait, that they would beat off attackers, or be destroyed. But they are wise, and far seeing, and they are prepared for as much as can be. A mere wedding feast will make little mark upon their hoard ! But their hoard is making its mark upon me, alas ! I was forced to cut a new hole in my belt. Before the wedding of my son. They are all eating sparingly to look their best, and I am eating like a starved hound. They laugh, and tell me that Hador ate thus when he came among them first. It may be that in our secret hearts we feel there is that in their food to make us more like them, to live forever, to be young forever... Or it may be that we are merely greedy. Well, I shall not be long here, and have only the plain food of my people to return to. Alas, I cannot even say that I miss our home cooking, for they have learned the tastes of Hador, which take after my own, and offer up their versions of my favourites, as fried cakes with fruit preserve, and pie... Oh the pies they make ! Pastry to melt your heart, and your strength ! They make cakes as we would bread, in an oven, and such cake ! Soft, crumbling and sweet, with fruit, or spices or syrups or preserves, hot cakes, cold cakes, cakes covered in nuts... My mouth waters at the memory, and the thought of supper.

   Barad Eithel... What a place. How can I tempt my son to return home ? I would advise him to stay, if I were anyone but his father. I feel that I ought to encourage him to remain, safer here than anywhere I could imagine, more comfortable, better fed, better armed, better clothed, all that they do, after their thousands of years of learning, is done better than we could do.

  
   But my son is taller !  
   It makes me smile. It makes him smile. We have not spoken of it, except with our eyes, but we know...  
   It would matter less if they did not value height so. For us, strength is the thing, but they seem to have gone past mere strength; they like a tall, elegant figure, like my Hador. It may be pitiful to invest so much in so little, but it is all we have, and I am grateful ! Well, but it may be that strength will be needed; if their 'shadow' is growing, there may be war, and then they will not look down on us so. Look down ! Ho, I shall make a jester yet !  
   War... Yes, their stores of weapons are as vast and indeed glittering as all else here. Their swords are longer, of course ! And so much finer than ours. My smiths are as absent as my steward. Indeed, my 'court' has deserted me, scattered among the Elves, learning new things, leaving me alone with this book of empty pages, but a mind spilling over with bewildered new thoughts. I must be grateful to them even for this fine feather, and this smooth black ink, that does not dry or clot, but flows like the glittering words on the Tower.

   The feather, in truth, is from no bird that I have ever seen. They told me the name, but it is Elvish, there is no word in our tongue. It comes from the north, and is rare, but yields a goodly spread of writing feathers. I wonder if they will let me keep one ? For there is so much to write, and they fill their days, and mine ! with riding and dancing, singing and feasting. They work, as we do, but their work seems a part of the dance, a part of the song, they do not move about as we would, stumbling and grumbling, they flow, they float from task to task, the very smiths beat their hammers as though playing upon drums. And I am here, alone, blinded by a flood of new thoughts. My cleric would happily write these things for me, but I cannot share my thoughts with her. She would understand, but she would understand too well. I do not care to be so open with her, or with anyone ! I must think these things out for myself. Too much is at stake ! I must keep my family safe. I must keep my people safe. These Elves... What are they ?

  
   Well, we are here. We are learning from them. They have offered no threat of any kind. They give us gifts, marvellous gifts... The necklace they made for my dear wife will break her heart. Five years ago the sight of it on her long white throat would have broken my heart. But now, it breaks my heart to think of her trembling hand struggle to lift the almost weightless silver, and the pearls like raindrops on cobwebs. It is a thing of wonder. The stone that the king gave to my Hador, a green-blue elfstone, as large as a bird's egg, why that stone itself would be enough to move a small army !

   Armies, yes. They have given Hador colours, the colours of a lord of Elves. Not the green and silver of the House of Marach, but rayed like the Sun, with his spears as rays, on a white ground. His spears. They made him a sword that I wept to behold, the blade shimmering with the folding of the smithy, the pommel stone a sapphire scarcely less marvellous than the stone at his throat, and his lineage engraved on the scabbard. I must confess that my throat closed, and my heart surged with foolish pride to see my own name graven there.  
   But Hador scarcely touches it, he prefers the spears, and now that I have seen him wield them, I cannot dispute his choice. In truth, and I write this with real pride, I dare not ! He would best me before I were within reach. He is fell, swift and deadly. I pity the foe to face him in wrath !

   But there are two to marry, and now I shall have another daughter. Who are the Elves ? Who can say ? But who is Gildis, the strangest child of my dear Geril, indeed, the strangest child I know. Well, of course she is older than my boy by two years, but he is so tall, so solid, he looks older than he is. Twenty three... I laugh, I blush, to recall myself at his age, head filled with naught but my horse, my hounds and my manhood. Well. But that was long ago...  
   I believe that Hador has someone here, someone other than fair Gildis. He does not seem, he does not move like an untried boy. He has the polished shine of one who is loved and tended. It may be merely the influence of the Elves, it may be that he has a friend among the few Mortals here, or it may be that one among the Elves has taken a fancy to him. If such things can ever be, then my handsome boy is one to find out ! Malach spoke of rumours of such things, but I paid him little heed, alas ! I cannot ask the boy, it is his own business. But what of the maiden ? Who can say ? Such a quiet girl, so even-tempered, yet when she sings, you would believe her clad in unkempt skins, barefoot by the open fire, under the wild stars ! What a woman ! I think that whoever is smoothing the hair of my son will be disappointed once she has taken him to her bed !

   She takes after her mother, of course, but the mother has only a middling voice, and old Geril can hardly hold a note ! But the ways of breeding are unknown even to the Elves, who say that they hope to bequeath the best of their mood to their young, whatever that may mean. Well, if it be so, my grandchildren will be sweet and merry, quiet and wise, strong and tall, and handsome as Elves ! In truth, when they are together, she looks truly lovely, and they move among the Elves as though they were of the Eldar themselves. It warms my heart, and yet, at those times, he seems so far away from me that I wonder if he has ever been with me. This was always where he wished to be, curse that old man ! and now that he is here I feel forgotten, laid aside with the playthings of childhood, like the old wooden sword.

 

 

 


	2. The Groom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hador tries to order his thoughts with a journal before his wedding.

 

Barad Eithel.  
This 414th Year of the Sun  
Midsummer

   Father has suggested writing my thoughts in this book. It is almost amusing. I, who have striven so to conceal my thought from these all-seeing Elves, should write them down, where anyone may read them ? Absurd. But still, it is an important day, to me, and to Gildis. I am so thankful that she will marry me ! It is strange, for I do not feel that my life can properly begin until we are wed. It may be that, wherever we live, it will be home to me as long as she is there.  
   And I may want to go home. To be with her, to have a home of my, of our own. I think I have been too long among the Elves. The abyss of time chills the bones, slowly. I feel it more and more. They take it for granted, it is how things are, to them. To live forever ! What a gift ! But what a curse !  
   They do not sleep. They never rest. They live ever in that cold cold wind, howling through the emptiness of the sky, brushing the stars into sparkling streams, and scouring cities and mountains from the face of the earth. And they sing ! Perhaps they sing as lost children sing, to keep their spirits up. Poor Maedhros. What an awful tale it is. His eyes ! I was shocked, and abashed by my fascination, not with the injury to his hand, but with the scouring of his spirit; which nevertheless roared at me, at the world, in those ferocious eyes.

   Married ! This very night ! I am as nervous as... as a groom before his wedding, I suppose, for what experience could compare ? I wonder if all the ceremony and ritual is to distract us from the enormity of what we do. It has not succeeded, I know what we are doing, and my guts are roiling like snakes. They smile at me, these Elves, seeing my thought, my... my fear... But I am learning, I can conceal my thought at times ! Well, perhaps not conceal, but merely by being intent upon my goblet, my sword, or the song, I may clear my mind at times, and offer no purchase for the grasping hands of their thought.

   But oh, it is wearying, and the mind is stubborn.

   There may be thoughts that we must have, that grow within us, as the crops grow hidden, and disturb the soil with their thrusting roots. And so I lie often awake, having the thoughts that I must have, when I should be at rest. Our people say of the Elves that they live in a dream, which I always thought absurd, since Elves are the most practical, most awake people it is possible to imagine. They never sleep. But do they ever awaken ? The intensity of their thought means that all that they do is done so well. But they do not daydream, or think of other things as they work, they give all their thought to the task in hand. Then, at night, when we would sleep, they have their daydreams, and order their thoughts, perhaps as deliberately as they do all else.  
   But it is in this, I think, that we are most different from them. Time is only quantity. If they were like us in all but age, that would be one thing. But it is not so, for their experience of the world is other than ours, it is different, their life is of a different kind to ours, they have different qualities.

   Oh, I do not know ! I have lived among them for seven years, and I know a few of them, faintly. If that. How can we know them ? They saw the Moon rise, for the first time. The world without the Moon, it is unimaginable, but so simple to know what it would be like.  Whereas the truth of the Elven heart is beyond all hope of understanding.

   Thank the Valar, I am wedding a Mortal, and one who has lived among the Eldar, and understands, well, how very difficult it is to be among them for long. They change us, their songs are more than music, more than singing as we would know it. Their songs have power, and whether they cannot or will not, no explanation of this power has been given. Gildis and I have both asked, and searched the libraries, and listened to all who would speak of such things. But no.  
   Írimë says that one who is blind may ask how it is possible to see, and you, who can see without effort, could offer no answer.  
   But, that indeed is no answer. I feel as a child, who has been told 'when you grow up.', but we are Mortal. We shall not grow up. We shall perish.

   Well, but that is why we wed, that our children may live on, bearing a little of us, a line in a song, if we are lucky, and a pair of grey eyes like my Gildis. Though, haha, my hair is better ! I am so relieved that I am to marry Gildis. She is so sensible, so wise, so kind, and so lovely ! And her voice ! I hope it may be as the Eldar sing, that Eru had in mind the whole of Arda, when first he sang, and that it is true that he heeded the snowflake, and the frost. I hope it is as they say, and Gildis and I were meant to find each other.  
   But then I remember the eyes of Maedhros and I wonder what monster could have planned such a fate for him. And the snowflake...  
   And my mother. I wish she could have come. But father says that the wasting sickness has hollowed her out, she could not have come had we held the feast at home. She must stay in her bed now until... Well, we shall be there, when we have joined together, I shall take my wife to my mother, before...  
   I wish I were not so offended by the injustice of it, of death, of disease. Why has Eru cursed us so ? Were we troublesome spirits to him, before the shaping of the world ? Does he seek vengeance, upon us, here ? But the idea is absurd, my mother could do no harm ! She loves the garden, she is of the order of Yavanna, if she is, if we are, spirits immortal, as some say. Father speaks of cutting a door in her room, that she may see her garden, which Maren tends now. She cannot be moved. It breaks my heart, but father is wise, and she will rest peacefully knowing that I am wed, and to such a one as Gildis. Gildis the bard ! Mine ! Truly, Eru has been kind to me, at least...

   But I feel so sick. It will pass, there is nothing to fear. Gildis will be there. Ha, what a fool I am, that is the very point and purpose of the ceremony, to be there for each other. Now and always. Dear Gildis, without her I should have drowned in Barad Eithel. I have come to think of the Elves as the waters of the lake. They will invite you in, the clear shallow water is safe, and in summer, even warm. But swim a little way from the shore and the coldness, and the dark depths below will freeze the marrow in your bones.

   What can we know of them ? What do they know of each other, who have all the time in the world to find out ? While we struggle to know ourselves...

   They get you. The music... I am so glad that she is a bard, and, moreover, one respected by the Elves. Of course, she denies any wisdom concerning the power of Elven song, but I think that she must know things, if she could but put them into words. I shall listen carefully; it may be that she does not realise what she knows, or has not paused to consider it.  
   In truth, she works far harder than I, and at a far more difficult task. Singing with the Elves ! It sounds pleasant, until you know what is involved ! While I, like her hound, or her horse, sweat in the field, practicing the sword and the spear, firing arrows until I dream of the target at night, and scarcely thinking beyond what the next meal may bring. I have been remiss in my studies, we have been away so long...  
   Fortunate Gildis, all her thoughts dwell on music. But I... I must study Mortals, not Elves, if I am to follow grandfather, and father, in guiding our people. What am I to do ? I am certain that we have much to learn from the Eldar, but what of the power they wield over us, over all that lives ? They will change us, in ways we cannot imagine, oh, I do not know. I suppose that a little learning, a little understanding, will help, will help us to know the Elves, and help the Elves to know us. Thus shall friendship be maintained between our peoples. But do I have the wisdom to know when I have learned enough ? What if it is too late, and I have fallen under their spell, and do not yet know it ?

   But these are thoughts for another time. My wedding. After a year of pleasant, nay, eager anticipation, it has come upon me so suddenly that I am close to panic, yet I cannot say why. I feel that there are so many things that I ought to have done, that the moment will come, and I will bolt in blind terror, like a truant child who has neglected his lessons. But of course I have not ! Oh yes, the Elves have lessons even for marriages, though not for the afterwards, as it were. Or if they do, they have not spoken of it to me ! We have rehearsed the festivities as they would a dance. Perhaps it is a dance, as some birds dance, when spring has come. I think it will be very beautiful. There are garlands all the way from the Hill of Manwë to the Hall of Fire, I have never seen so many flowers. And lanterns ! Chest after chest they brought up through the endless corridors of the cellar, each full of those exquisite silver lanterns, that cast such lovely shadows as they burn. The sky is clear, the crescent moon rises late, it will be so beautiful. They have allowed us to marry in the Mortal fashion, though insisted that they also sing the Wedding Song, since it has been so long since last they sang it. Not even Malach married here. They have not practiced the song, they say it is not a thing they could forget, supposing they ever forgot anything at all. Really, at times, I am aware of their full strangeness, and I shiver...

   But they have given me a magnificent robe, absurdly embroidered with strange flickers of silver, part flame, part rays of sunlight, it cannot be told. But so much silver ! On a robe ! It will be stiff and heavy. I must rest before nightfall, it would not do to be weary tonight !

   I cannot reveal my heart in this book ! My heart belongs to Gildis now, my thoughts are for her to share, not these pages. But it may be that there are things that she would not wish to share, troubles that need not burden her thought, but that I may confront, with the feather as my guide, posing the questions that I have not found the words with which to ask. I will say nothing of our love, it is what it is, and we are happy.  
   We might have a child. A year from now I might be a father. The very idea stuns me, I feel scarcely older than I was when I left home, here in the timeless world of the Elves. I hope that I have not fallen behind, neglecting the duties of my father’s son, of my mother’s... Oh that she could live to see our child ! But none will give me even the hope. Indeed, she looked so frail when last I saw her that I cannot doubt their sadness. This happiest of days will be shadowed by her absence. As all the North lies under shadow. So say the Elves...

   They get you, with their songs, creeping like smoke into your thought; they skip past, blythe and singing, and you are changed, and can never forget what you have heard, what you have seen. There is no shadow ! The sun is hot in the clear sky, the silver roof shines, the silver pillars waver in the heat, the Elves sing nearby, and all is well.

   But how can we dispute them when they speak of that which is beyond our sight, beyond our understanding ?

   Indeed I am torn, torn between my people and the Eldar, as Gildis is torn. But together, we may find peace, and if not in either world, then we shall make a new world, neither Eldar nor Edain, but something between, where song is more important than at present to Mortals, but never as all-consuming as with Elves. Oh, I may dream, today of all days. But as Írimë pointed out, Eru put both our peoples in the world at the same time. We were meant to meet. The Valar may have wished to keep us apart, but they were thwarted by the will of the Avari.  
   If only I could imagine what they might learn from us ! I can think of nothing... I wonder... I wonder if that is to be my purpose, to inspire and encourage our people to some feat, or skill, or insight of wisdom, that will at last make the Elves look seriously upon us, and hear our words. And if I cannot do it, Gildis shall try, and if neither of us achieve aught for all our labour, we shall teach our children, that one day, the Eldar will know the Edain for brothers in truth.

   The sunlight has reached my spears on the wall. How marvellous they look, dazzling in the sunset, the golden points burn like living flame. They are so beautiful. Of course I had to have their image on my shield. My own Elven colours ! But in truth, I am the child with the wooden sword, in a tiny helmet, piping alongside the warriors.  
   Yes, they are singing the Song of the Setting Sun. Soon it will be time to bathe, and dress in that robe, that glittering robe, weighty as armour, and try to hold my head up and walk straight without stumbling like a fool and upsetting Gildis. Ha ! Nothing upsets Gildis ! Oh, I am so fortunate ! Who could find a better wife than my lovely bard ? Írimë says that marriage goes best when the families are friends. Well, I truly warmed to her father, and am in awe of her mother. I think, I hope, that one day I shall come to understand her mother, and herself ! But what a pleasant task to be set !

   Fingolfin is coming, with gifts. More gifts ! What can we offer to them ? They want for nothing; it would be absurd to bring them treasures, like throwing a torch on a forest fire. I hope, I suppose, that Gildis and I may write a song that they would sing, or at least, listen to. If only for the amusement of novelty. But then, they get you. Their music shapes our very thoughts. Gildis freely admits that any tune she may compose will be influenced by that which she has heard from the Elves.

   Oh Eru ! Why did I choose to wed here, in the chief city of the Elves ? Will it seem less real, to be wed in such a place ? Something dreamed, rather than lived ? Will we believe that we are truly united ? Truly one ?  
   I hear footsteps on the stairs, and Fingolfin laughing with someone. He will rebuke me for not being dressed, but my mind is a storm and I must write some of these thoughts down, or I shall speak them aloud and embarrass my family, or my wife.  
   It is upon me. The moment is here. Henceforth, the moment will be upon us, for I shall be part of a larger whole. I hope that I shall not shame her, or disappoint her or ever cause her to regret joining me. I hope that we may be happy.

   Fingolfin is here, he is laughing still. The time has come.

 

 


	3. The Best Man, or Elf.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin, chosen to stand at the side of Hador, whom he loves, reflects on the wedding after the feast.

 

 

https://www.deviantart.com/victoriaclare/art/Fingolfin-a-moment-of-regret-in-Hithlum-762675279 

 

   I bathed in the spring this morning, it has been long since last I plunged into Eithel Sirion, not the small pool up among the trees, but the lower pool, that we built ourselves, deep enough to dive into, and feel, for a moment, that all was washed away.

   The wine at least was washed away. But I am troubled...

   I have written those words a thousand thousand times. I can scarcely recall a day when it was not so. If it were not for the laughter of my sister... But people are happy, and cannot believe in my fretfulness. 'Of course the shadow grows !' they say, 'but we are here !'  
   Our faith in our own strength may be our undoing, for He is cunning beyond our wit to grasp, and His malice will find us out. Ah, I long for the old days, laughing beneath the Trees, when my only concern was to be brave before my brother. Even now I cannot believe that he is gone, fierce, brilliant Fëanor; the living silmaril, as the song says... How he filled my life, though I so rarely saw him. And he is gone, and I must take his place. If only... I have had no preparation for this role. No, not even Helcaraxë. They give me praise, for a worthy feat, worthily accomplished, but my family knows, we know, that only together, only by holding each other up, did we cross that place of death.

   But these are dark thoughts for a bright morning ! And so it has come to pass, my favourite Mortal has married my favourite bard. Even now they... But I prefer not to dwell on such things, for they bring Anairë before my mind, and my heart, and pain me. I wonder if she regrets remaining in Tirion. But I am glad that she did not face the ice. I would not have wished that journey on an orc. I wonder still whether Turgon blames me, and prefers not to look upon me again. Oh I would have given my own life to save Elenwë for him, for my dear boy... But no, he is gone, vanished, and no warning, no farewell for his own father...

   Ah, I should cast myself back into Sirion, I am fretful as a hurt child. The dark hour, when the wine turns to vinegar. Perhaps I should drink a little more, and move on into the festivities of this day. Yes, it is a fine vintage, smooth and mellow. If only I myself could be so ! But no, I rage like my brother, inside, while turning my rigid calm to the world.

   The singing has died away, or perhaps they are within, dancing and drinking. Perhaps I should find some revellers and join them. No, I would drink to excess, and become foolish. More foolish ! Oh Hador thinks we are so wise... We left the Blessed Realm. How could we ever be counted wise ? Thingol was right to shut us out, we are not worthy of Doriath.  
I hope Fingon never sees this. He was innocent, though his hands are stained with Teleri blood. How could he have known ? Oh Fëanor Fëanor what have you done...

   These robes, I must remove this heavy... That is better. Oh the fuss ! Oh the running about the halls, with bright cloth, and brighter flowers, and chests and caskets, goblets and flagons, always laughing. Everyone has been caught up in this marriage, Hador has become the adopted child of all Barad Eithel, all but I. To me... But Gildis too, she is their prize, they feel that since she grew under Elven tutelage, she is theirs. They are so proud that Finrod recognises her. Indeed, I am proud of her, and eager to hear the songs she will compose.  
  
   She looked lovely under the silver lanterns, her gown the colour of peaches, her flushed cheeks the colour of peaches ! It was sweet, heartwarming. The necklace I gave her did not match her clothes, but she wore it anyway; there is some Mortal custom which considers blue a lucky colour. It may be that they recall a time when the quest for water drove their thought, and the blue is a symbol of that endless quest. It is certain that they are new to building, and lived long as wanderers, as did our own people, as do many still.  
   I shall build them a house, of course, but they must settle to wedlock first, before we think of troubling them. And the mother of Hador lies dying and could not come. I could see him, turning to smile at her, but the place beside his father was empty. Mortals ! What are they ? I wonder if we shall ever know ? I feel that it may be as a problem in figuring, which, once seen, is blindingly obvious.

   The wedding... Hador looked magnificent, for a Mortal. He has a beard now, and the illusion that he was an Elf is past. It was strange, his hair is as golden as his skin, the beard seemed to appear on an instant; and on a day, with the light behind him, he turned his head and the sun shone through the hairs on his chin. He is Mortal...  
   But still, how we all love him, his smile warms the whole city, we have joined in his celebrations with a bubbling enthusiasm, and much laughter and song. Indeed, the city is quieter now than it has been for weeks. They are letting him rest...  
   The most cheering sight was that fool who insulted Hador openly, when first I knew him, coming to apologize again, and to offer him a gift. It was a flight of arrows, with black feathers, that shimmered in the light, a fine gift which he had fletched himself. He gave a pretty speech, about the arrow being fired back, and Hador rose to his feet to embrace the fellow, Mortal fashion. But there, it warmed our hearts, it was a meet revenge...

   Gifts... Hador will need two houses, one to live in, and one to store his gifts. A harp came from Himring ! Maglor had made it, for Gildis, but still she will say nothing of her speech with him. But the harp ! It is carved from wood so dark it appears black. The carpenters know it, but it is new to me. And set in the frame are gems for stars, and silver for waves, thin curls that only the most skilled hand could have placed so delicately. Truly, the sons of Fëanor are gifted with more than their father’s mood.  
   To my embarrassment, Írimë gave them a portrait of me, seated with my hand on my chin, looking puzzled, alas. I thought that they would laugh, and hardened my guts, but they pored over it, their heads together, and looked up at me with shining eyes, as though I had done more than sit still one day for the artist. But Lalwen is unquencheable !

   The wedding. In fact it was very beautiful, at the Ring of Yavanna, which we planted on the Hill of Manwë, with the low stone pillar amidst the flowers. Our people had been hanging lanterns and garlands for days, singing racy tunes, with words they would not sing before me ! Ah well, it is the price of being my father’s son, that I must feign politeness even when I would join in the laughter.  
   I was reminded of Mereth Aderthad, a little. It feels like the end of a chapter, the turning of a corner. How different the mood to that frenzy of relief, of joy that we had survived, that we were united (ah well...) that we could dare to dream of victory...  
   But now, well, we have survived... We are settled here, with new ways, to match the changes of weather and season. How the wood-elves mock us for our windows of glass, who dwell in the trees and scorn a roof ! But in the snow, I would not trade the fire on my hearth for all three silmarils in my hand !  
   I wonder if I could hold them... They say the Enemy, being unworthy, was burned by their touch. The silmarils show no mercy, I suppose, and cannot be pleaded with. What would they... How would they judge me ? Am I guilty ?

   But my thoughts are scattered, more wine !

   Hador is wed. Gildis set the kindling, Hador lit the spark, they leaned close and gently blew together, and the fire was lit, the symbol of the hearth, the home. We cheered then, it was heartwarming to see them smile at each other, for even with that mark of the Mortal, the beard, the beauty of Hador is breathtaking.  
   They broke the bread, and opened the wine, and fed each other, then held the gold cup to each other’s lips to drink. They turned to us, held their hands in the air, and we sang the Mortal song, "Joined in Love." It is a strange melody, filled with yearning, or so it seems to me. I think the composer may have regretted their choice, and seen love pass by...  
   Hador shared the bread among us witnesses, and Gildis poured the wine, and we drank together, and ate the small pieces of the sweet bread, and then, in the moment of stillness, the two of them kissed. The pillar was behind them, the fire, burning well, shone through between them, lighting them up, but casting me into shadow. I... more wine.

   And so they were married. It was then that Írimë stood forwards, as they looked about, wondering what next, though of course we had rehearsed the ceremonies...  
   But Írimë began the first notes, and soon the hill echoed with our joyful singing, and the people of Barad Eithel moved into the spiral dance. All were decked in jewellery, we glittered like a spilled chest, the lantern light sparkled on gold and silver, beryl and sapphire, ruby and pearl. It was beautiful, as they moved in their lines, up and down the hill, passing and repassing, singing the Wedding Song of the Elves, older than the Sun and the Moon, as the Mortals say. As old as Cuiviénen, we would say, I suppose. But they think of time very differently to us, and much more often. It must be like being on an errand, rushing in, doing all you can, and then suddenly, you are gone again...  
   Mortals...

   Gildis looked proud and stately, I think Anairë herself would have approved. Ah, Anairë, so very disappointed in me, so very... Where is that wine...

   Hador, though, Hador looked around, smiling radiantly, his great eyes like gemstones under the many lanterns, his arm on the shoulders of his wife. His wife ! He was a boy, a gangling boy, just... and now, tallest in all the land. People talk often of setting him beside Thingol, just to see... Really, we are such fools. How could we have dreamed of defying the Valar ? I did not ! I merely swore to follow my brother’s lead. What a fool I was. To set his whim against the will of Eru, and to choose him, rather than Ilúvatar... I must have been fey myself. I have thought much on this, as have the wise, who flatteringly count me among their number. There is a growing acceptance that it is not "my king, right or wrong", which is the path of tyranny, the path of the Enemy. No, it is merely "right or wrong."

   Wine. So right ! But the wedding, which I suppose I am still celebrating, since I am still drinking... We danced, yes, I too, we danced down the sides of the hill, along the path lined with garlands and every tree hung with lanterns, singing as the crescent moon rose over Ard-galen. The night air was fresh, the wind had picked up, pouring over Ered Wethrin, with the promise of rain to come. I am glad, for the haze thickens, and the flowers wilt in the heat.

   In the great hall we saw them married as we would consider it. Írimë stood forth, and they stood side by side, holding hands tightly like lost children. I stood at the right hand of Hador, and the sister of Gildis stood with her. Írimë spoke the words of doubt, and Hador, his voice deeper than ever, in his flawless Sindarin, spoke the words of affirmation, and love. Gildis accepted him, and took the ring from her sister, and placed it upon the hand of dear Hador. And I, forgetful of myself, caught up in the momentousness, forgot that I had a part to play, and when Hador turned for the ring, I stared at him in surprise.  
   More wine !  
But his anxious eyes reminded me, and all went smoothly, and Írimë did not laugh at me, which was a relief.

   We feasted them then, and admired the gifts, and Gildis played the dark harp, and we danced. I danced first with Gildis, she is so light, her bones are such that I could break them in my fingers, it seems. Though she is tall, she is insubstantial, somehow, a wisp, a frail fleeting flicker, pale as marsh fire... But her joy was great enough to fill my halls, my city, my realm ! I could not help but smile at her shining eyes, and when she asked for my blessing, I committed another act of folly, and told her of the house that I would build for them. She turned instantly to him, but he was dancing with her mother, laughing, and she did not interrupt. Truly, I had meant to keep my tidings, but no...  
   Where is...

   My dear Hador, married. He wore the jewel that Felagund gave to me, the blue-green stone, that I gave to Hador, as I would give him... well, everything. How he has charmed us all ! His spirit burns bright and clear; where Fëanor was a living furnace, Hador is silver lanterns in a tree. And as we danced, I paused to drink, and he stood before me, blythe with smiles. I embraced him then, as Mortals do, caring no more for the watching eyes. But I could feel his thought, waiting for the time when all, even I, were gone, and Gildis awaited. He smiled again into my eyes and thanked me for the gift of the house. And when I asked him where they would choose to live, his face changed, he almost frowned, but I knew that he meant no hurt to me.  
   "Dor-lomin, sire. Beyond the mountains of Mithrim."  
I was astonished, and pained, that he would choose to live so very far from here. So very far from me. But when my eyes turned to Gildis, he gripped my arm "No, sire, it is I who have chosen this. Gildis is a bard, all places are alike to her, can she but play in peace. But I... We... We would learn from the Elves, of course, but we must... We are Mortals, the very rhythms of our life are so different to your own. And you, well, I shall be gone, truly gone, before much of your time has passed. You must live on, my lord, your people look to you. I... forgive me."  
   "Hador Lórindol, it is your candour that I love. When you are content with your new life, I would appoint you to my council, that you may speak your heart, and cut through the wilderness of words among my own people."  
   "My lord ! Your council ? I could never... I am a soldier, not a courtier, and assuredly not among the wise... You mock me, sire."  
   "Not so, I have told you, candour is your gift, it is all we could ask of you, and it is what we most need. But you need not fear a lack of wisdom on your part, no hard questions will be asked of you ! But you shall be the herald of your people, you who have known our world, and may form a bridge between us."  
  
   Well, that was the last I spoke to him, and after a while, they prepared to leave, and we gathered at the door to the rooms they will share while yet they dwell among us. Írimë had the entrance painted anew for this; the colour matches the gem at his throat, I hope it shall remind him of me.  
   This wine is superb, truly delicious. The sun is high, the night has passed, Hador is wed, and I was there.

   He picked her up as easily as a cloak, and held her high on his chest to kiss her. His robe, which clung to his body, damp in the heat, showed all too clearly how very pleased he was with her. She was laughing, and kicking her legs, I could not but laugh myself, until he turned to us with his great blinding smile, his golden hair clinging in shining strands to his forehead. He looked into my eyes for a moment, and I thought of a hound, forepaws stretched, ready for the chase, poised for a moment, high tail still, before tearing away. And like the hound he was gone, in a swirl of golden hair, and Írimë was beside me, with wine, with this wine.

   What now ? The sun is high, the life of the Eldar, as long as the life of the world, lies before me, but there will be no Hador to smile at me, and warm my heart. Dor-lomin ! As far away as they can go without offense to me ! Ah, I am an old fool, like poor Hathol, who admitted to me that he was watching everything closely, to speak of this to his wife, that she might see it as we did. I shall speak to the artists; I would paint the scene for him myself, but alas, I have no such gift.  
   Mortals. Why must they die ? I suppose that if they did not, we would all be Elves together. Ah, I am reminded of Finarfin, plaintively exclaiming "But why can we not all be friends together ?" Alas alas for my brothers...

   This is excellent wine, though perhaps I ought to eat a little. This feather weighs heavy in my hand, the Sun is hot at my back, I should eat, and take some rest. But surely there is some thought, some hopeful word that I have not yet found...

   Wait ! I have it ! Mortals ! They live swiftly, but there will be children, and the House of Hador will live on ! It may be that I shall see him again, in a smile, or in that golden hair, or even his eyes, round and blue, shining like the morning, looking at me from the face of a stranger.

   It is I who am the stranger, for it seems that I do not know myself. I look around this familiar room, where I have spent centuries waving the feather at the world, dreaming of an end to the quarrels and the war.

   It is so quiet; the feather scrapes, I feel that I could hear the ink flow, did I but listen... But the wine flows, filling my emptiness, until...

   Surely that is his voice, on the stair, laughing with the guard. When I think of him, I remember only laughter, his large eyes vanishing into the curves of his cheeks as he roared, and set me laughing again. More than anything I shall miss his laughter. But that is his step, he is running up the stairs ! I cannot...  
   He is standing in the doorway, he forgot to knock again, the guard will be shaking his head, but smiling. Hador looks like a cat in a thunderstorm, alert and sparking. He is looking at my hand as I write this, perhaps he wonders if I have forgotten him so soon. As if I could ever...

   So, my hound has returned, unsure of his welcome.

   But I am celebrated for my hospitality, and I have wine.

 

 

 


End file.
